ORIGIN

Feral was twining her way down the trail of the jungle, pushing through the ferns and leaves. She was a scruffy thing--an adult, but still clearly wild. Her amber eyes gleamed with good health, her pelt beautifully thick and red-gold. She moved with the energy of a canine in the prime of her life, well-fed and rested.

She also moved with the distinctive quiet alertness that signified a predator on the hunt.

Her tongue was lolling out, but her panting was not loud. Her eyes were wide and bright, ears rotating to take in every sound. She made her way down to one of the streams, lapping up the cool, refreshing water, then trotted in the shadowed forest along its edge for a time before crossing it.

There was no scent of prey, not here. She crossed with a series of quiet splashes, pausing to shake out her coat, the spray of droplets creating a fine mist that shimmered down in rainbows.

Onward, up the opposite bank--slipping a little in the mud--and into the thick jungle beyond. She paused, now and then, to peer out into the more open areas; often she'd catch a cave deer unaware, grazing with its back to the water. Now, though, she saw nothing: only empty clearings, fields of ferns and moss.

A little farther ahead she paused again, and this time, she saw a bird: a white bird, down on the ground, its attention consumed by several rather menacing-looking dark plants that it was looking over. Spiky things, purplish, Feral briefly thought--but the dingo didn't worry herself with that.

The point was that it was prey, that it was close by, and that it was distracted.

Instantly on high alert, the dingo dropped down low, and began to prowl forward, placing each paw with immense caution as she crept toward the white raven.

Feral crept closer, trying very hard not to wag her tail. She might hit a fern, after all, and give herself away. She stayed stiff, barely moving, sometimes quivering near-motionless like a cat. Whenever the white raven seemed to turn away, to be engrossed in the plants, she took a careful step.

She knew how quickly birds could simply take flight--one moment in the grass and the next high in the air above, screaming at her from the trees.

So she crept forward, tensed, and at the last possible moment--just as she cleared the brush-line and came out into the light--she pounced.

She lunged jaws-open, aiming to snap them shut around the raven, to bite down hard. She just hoped it didn't notice her first.

And that she didn't miss.

With any luck, she'd have a fat bird dinner tonight, and that ache of hunger in her abdomen would be gone.

Success! A thrill of triumph ran through her as she felt the warm feathers fill her jaws, and she bit down, holding tight.

The dingo flattened her ears back, wincing, as the white raven screeched in her face. Instinct quickly took over; she backed up the few paces, then began to try to rapidly shake the bird back and forth, biting down hard.

Crush her.

Silence her.

Daze her.

Snap her neck.

KILL her!

Backing up for the cover of the stream, just in case something else heard the bird's cries and came running, she tried to bite down (so as not to lose her grip) and shake her hard. Most of the birds she caught fought for a moment, and then succumbed, dazed by the shaking, or broken-necked, and then she would carry them off and pick through their meat and bones at her leisure. Though usually, she did not eat with leisure.

Hopefully, this delectable little white morsel would prove no different.

The bird was still screeching, though not quite so loudly. Weakened? Tired? Dying? Feral quickly scooted back into the ferns, a blur of tawny fur, trying to hide in their shadows. Then she dropped her head, trying to use paws to stabilize the bird so she could get a better grip. This was a fast motion--a quick drop-and-step, and then she tried to adjust her jaws--carefully--to bite down as hard as she could.

She had to get the bird dead, and quickly--though she felt just the taste of something on her tongue that gave her pause.

Something... gross. Rancid. Something wrong.

Never mind that now. She would worry about it once the bird was dead; the screeching had her adrenaline flowing, the flutter of life and feather and blood in her jaws sending her heart hammering in her canine chest, thumping against her ribs.

She had to crush the life out of the little white raven. And fast. These things, she knew, could turn around in a heartbeat.